


Fireworks and Hurricanes

by LadyTineapple



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Third Star (2010)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:36:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTineapple/pseuds/LadyTineapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bad news reach Sherlock and despite his own instincts, he can't just escape, but has to stay and face them, even if it hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This isn't happening

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is more of a prologue than an actual chapter, so it's a bit short. Apologies.

It’s cancer,” the Doctor said. “Terminal. There’s nothing we can do for him.”

Sherlock quickly turned and burst out of the hospital, leaving his mother and Mycroft behind with the doctor. When he was back outside, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in as long as he could. He smiled at the irony when he exhaled. The irony of him smoking when somebody he loved so much was dying of cancer, the irony of him, who always had wanted to be left alone already dreading the loneliness that was to come and the irony that he, Sherlock Holmes, who had always been the weaker and sicker one, who had sought death was alive and sound, while the stronger one, who had always enjoyed life to its fullest had to die at far too young an age.

Mycroft came out to join him when Sherlock’s cigarette was burned halfway down. “I see you’re being emotional,” he said. It was not a question, it was a statement. “I thought it might be difficult for you to deal with it, but I did honestly not expect you to be that–”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupted him.

“Oh, anger already? You knew what was coming then?”

“Of course I knew, I always knew. The moment he said he felt a bit ill, I knew,” Sherlock spat out and regretted it immediately. He didn’t want to tell anybody anything. Especially not to Mycroft.

Mycroft did not react to what his younger brother had just said, but only looked at him. “I know this is difficult for you, Sherlock, but don’t forget that we all will have to deal with it. You’re not the only one who is affected by this.”

Sherlock flipped the stub of his cigarette away and tucked his jacket tighter around himself. “I need to get away,” he mumbled, taking a few steps into the direction of the main-road.

“I am certain,” Mycroft continued just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, “that he will need you too.”

Sherlock stopped, feeling torn apart between his need to get away from what hurt him so much and being there for the only person he has ever really liked. He turned back to Mycroft, feeling more helpless than ever. “How could I help him? What could I possibly do for him?” He stared at his older brother, (who was completely surprised to see Sherlock being so upset) waiting for him to reply as he tried not to cry. “What could I possibly do for him that his friends couldn’t do?”

Get yourself together,” Mycroft said angrily. “Don’t forget that you have always been there, just like he has always been there for you. Do you really want to leave him now, in his possible last days? Do you really want to let him die alone, without that one person who has always been there?”

“Why not?” Sherlock shouted. “I will have to die without him, too!”

“Then you know how it feels,” the elder said coldly. “For god’s sake, Sherlock, you are his brother!”


	2. Everything In Its Right Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Yuri spread this a bit, I felt the need to push this further, so the story slowly begins to go somewhere. Now, however, you have to wait.

“I don’t want to,” Sherlock said with a broken voice, his chin pressed against his chest.

“Neither did I, brother,” Mycroft said strictly, “but he needs us.”

Sherlock took a deep breath before he raised his shaking hand to press the door handle down. He entered the small room which had belonged to his brother so many years ago, when they were still teenagers. He had quickly moved back into his mother’s place after the diagnosis. There was no point in inhabiting his own flat when he was unable to move in it and he still had a family ready to offer him the help he would need. His brothers had quickly followed him to their old home, even though it was only for the time being. 

He was lying on his bed, thinner and paler than usual, exhausted from life itself and tired from the medication, which was supposed to ease the pain. Yet his face lit up when Sherlock finally came to see him and he quickly sat up.

“I thought you had forgotten about me,” he said giggling, interrupted by hard coughing.

“Of course,” Sherlock said not quite able to keep his brothers joking up. “Who doesn’t just forget their twin?” He wanted to force himself to a smile, but as he did, he felt the lump in his chest appear again and teared up.

“Don’t be so sentimental,” the sick one said. “That is my part and it doesn’t suit you. I prefer you being cold and distant.”

“And being high does not suit you, James.” Sherlock said, almost smiling for a moment. “That is my job.”

For a while the brothers looked at each other, smiling, almost laughing in fact. Though, it was a sad laugh, as both of them knew that it might be the last time they were laughing together. When their laughter faded, Sherlock wracked his brain for something to say so they would not fall into an awkward silence, something to keep their moods up; anything that could keep him from thinking about what was going to happen to his brother.

James sighed. “I know this is not easy for you, Sherlock, and I am very grateful that you came to see me, but if you–”

“No,” Sherlock said with a stern voice and then sighed. “I know I was an idiot and coward to wait so long to visit you and if Mycroft wouldn’t have forced me to, I probably still wouldn’t be here, but I don’t want to let you down.” He breathed deeply, mentally preparing for what he had to say. “I want to see you as much as I can, while I still can.”

James smiled sadly at his brother. It said a lot about Sherlock’s feelings that he showed so much of himself here, instead of hiding it all as he usually did. “You can always see me, as long as you’ve got a mirror,” he said jokingly, but his twin was not able to return the smile. When Sherlock looked him in the eyes, he just seemed helpless, heartbroken and desperate. “We still have time left,” James assured him. “It could take years, until I go. You will be fine.”

“You won’t,” Sherlock whispered, more to himself than his brother, who smiled back at him, even though he didn’t know what to say. Sherlock had always tried very hard to hide his emotions, so nobody ever really knew how to react when he did show them.

On the other hand, Sherlock kept wracking his brain for anything to say. All the things he should say, could say, always wanted to say or would wanted to have said, when it would be too late and could not think of a thing. His brain felt completely empty. Under other circumstances he would have welcomed that feeling, a relaxing change from his usual state, but given his current situation he found it difficult to enjoy.

“If you can’t think, like this,” James said, knowing what every move and motion of Sherlock meant, “go and play the violin. We both know it helps you.”

“You know I despise it,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “It’s boring and its sound is atrocious.” Sherlock folded his hands behind his back and started walking up and down the room in a perfect line. “It would also mean I’d have to leave you, at least for the time I need to fetch it. So, no.”

“You will have to leave me for a few moments, eventually,” James said. “And I’d prefer you playing something you hate to this endless walking up and down. You’re driving me insane.” He lay back down, to ease the pain sitting caused him in his back. “Then again, I would probably prefer you playing the violin to anything. You’re good.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock snapped, finally stopping his stride. “Only an idiot like you could like that.” He raised a brow at his brother and continued his stride, with his fingertips pressed together in front of his face, in a prayer-like manner.

“You should do it for a living,” James continued to tease his brother, who merely gave him an angry glance as he continued walking up and down, trying to think of something to do with himself. “For god’s sake, Sherlock, sit down!” James shouted and Sherlock followed, looking a bit confused and surprised by his brother’s short outburst, feeling more lost in the situation than before.

“Sorry,” James said quietly. “Maybe it’s just me, but I find your habits even more annoying today.”

Sherlock waved, as if to erase his brother’s words. “It’s quite all right. I know how you hate it.”

James smiled at his brother’s unusual softness, even though he was well aware of the reason he behaved this way. “So, what have you been up to the past few days?”

“Oh, the usual,” Sherlock simply said, trying to avoid to think about how he wasted the time he should have been spending with his dying twin.

James nodded quickly. “I see. Drinking, drugging up, and looking at dead people.”

“I wish,” Sherlock said longingly. “The police just won’t listen to me. It’s always the idiots who refuse to take help.” He shook his head at the thought of all the people who refused to see his genius, which lay so obviously before them.

“One day, you will find a way to make them listen,” James assured him. “Just make sure they don’t lock you up as the murderer then. Until then you can become a violinist.”

“Will you ever stop with the bloody violin?” Sherlock asked angrily. “If you hadn’t convinced Mother that it would be ‘good for my brain’, just because you wanted to tease me, I could have escaped that damn thing.”

“But you really are good,” James repeated. “And I love your playing.”

“It’s boring,” Sherlock said. “Just like your general taste in music. Who actually listens to classics? Pseudo-intellectuals and old people.”

“People who have a good taste in music,” he replied laughingly. “I know you want the whole world to be just like you, but that is impossible.”

“It’s annoying,” Sherlock growled back, his eyes scanning the room, still subconsciously searching for something to do. He looked, as he did so often, an awful lot like a hungry jaguar, ready for the hunt.

James on the other hand, was giggling at his brother’s impatience and hate for people, which he expressed on a daily basis. He never managed to fully understand what it must have been like for the genius, to only be surrounded by people who couldn’t keep up with him. He did however understand why he didn’t have any friends, though it was still a mystery to him, how Sherlock could tolerate him. James was not smarter than most of his classmates had been. An average mind, one of those Sherlock despised. Yet they got along. Obviously not out of sentiment from Sherlock’s side. He wasn’t too close with any other members of their family. Sometimes he got into contact with Mycroft for the sake of having a clever conversation, but James seemed to be the only one Sherlock truly cared about. Sometimes James had wondered whether it was because Sherlock saw so much of himself in him, but he never knew and Sherlock refused to give him an answer.

“Any plans for the next few days?” James asked.

Sherlock looked at him, his brows furrowed. “Staying here, of course. I told you I’m not going.”

“You will go insane, if you stay here,” James said, trying not to laugh at his brother’s sudden dedication. “You already are hyped up, because you can’t find anything to do and you haven’t even been here for half an hour.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Sherlock said quickly. He let his eyes wander through the room once more and had to admit that there was absolutely nothing for him to do. “I will just need some things.”

“I told you–”

“Mycroft can get them,” Sherlock interrupted his twin. “I’m not going.”

“So, it’s all right for Mycroft to stay away from me, but you have to stay here? Don’t I get a say in this?” James said jokingly.

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied. “I know exactly what you want and need.”

“And that is you?” James asked smiling even wider.

“What else could anyone need or want?”


	3. Everyone is so Near

“I was wrong you know,” James mumbled half asleep.

“Hm?”

“I thought you were going insane here,” he turned his head to be more audible, “but in fact, it’s you who drives me insane.”

Sherlock laughed shortly. “That’s nothing new.” He spoke lowly in order to keep his brother relaxed and not wake him up too much.

“Just sleep, for god’s sake,” James drawled as he wrapped his blanket tighter around himself. “Don’t tell me you don’t need to, because you do. Your brain has nothing to do and that means you can sleep.”

“No, I don’t,” he lied. “My mind is racing.” It was true that he was tired, but he didn’t want to sleep in case his brother’s condition suddenly got worse and he would require help. His mind was racing, but it raced around nothing. He still had the feeling his brain was drained, completely empty. It tried hard to work something out, except that he couldn’t remember what it was. Though, of course, he would never admit any of that.

“Fine,” James said with a yawn and turned away from him, “but stop with the drumming of your fingers.”

Sherlock, who had not even noticed that he had been doing that, immediately pulled his arm up and pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth, in his typical prayer-position.

“And stop thinking,” James said firmly, even though he was incredibly tired. “It’s annoying.”

Sherlock sighed in frustration, not knowing what he was supposed to do with himself, if he was not allowed to think or distract himself from the emptiness in his head. For a minute, an awfully long minute, he tried to enjoy the view at the skyline from James’ room, then he already heard his brother’s breath go deep and frequent and knew that he was asleep, which, he knew, gave him to freedom to think again.

When James awoke in the late morning, he found his twin asleep on the chair he had been sitting on for almost three days already. He was still sitting upright as usual, but his head was resting on his chest. He smiled at the unusual picture and wrapped his blanket around his brother, who shifted a bit underneath, apparently enjoying the warmth. James quietly got up and walked to the door, each step hurting. Yet, he felt that it already had been worse. After all, the drugs he got did help.

Holding onto the walls and doors, he stumbled down the corridor to the kitchen to get himself some breakfast, where Mycroft and their mother greeted him cheerily. As cheerily as they could act, that was. Mycroft did not seem to have great issues faking a smile, but Mummy still looked like she wanted to cry every time she lay eyes upon her sick child, which irritated James greatly.

“Has Sherlock finally stopped clinging onto your coat tails?” Mycroft asked teasingly. He had already made very clear what he thought of Sherlock’s worries. He did want his brothers to care about each other, but he was convinced that Sherlock was taking it too far.

“Not really,” James said, collapsing onto one of the chairs, “but his body finally won over his stubborn head and he managed to fall asleep. Probably not too long ago, so I thought I might leave him.” He took a slice of bread, even though it did not look too appetising to him. Nothing did, thanks to his medication. “I just hope he doesn’t get a stiff neck from that chair.”

“Or a heart-attack when he finds your bed empty,” Mycroft added.

“Yes, that might happen,” James said laughing. “He will probably deduce where I am.”

“Certainly,” the elder brother replied. “He will probably be angry though. He doesn’t seem to want to let you go anywhere without him anymore. You two haven’t been spending that much time together since the day you could crawl away from each other.”

James laughed along with their mother, who remembered those times only too well. Even though Sherlock and James had always gotten along, they both needed to get away from each other. Sherlock needed his kicks and his intellectuality, while James needed social contacts, which were almost impossible to sustain when you spent time with Sherlock Holmes and sometimes needed his mind, which was unable to keep up with his brother’s to take a break from the cleverness.

The three ate breakfast together, chatting about the usual things and almost forgot about the pain they all were going through for a while, when they heard quick steps, announcing that Sherlock has woken up.

He looked angry and tensed when he entered the kitchen, but immediately seemed to relax a bit when he found all family members sitting at the table. “Why did you just go?”

“I was hungry,” James answered truthfully, chewing a big bite he had just taken, “and you needed some sleep.”

Sherlock gave him an angry look. He tried hard to understand what was going on in his twin’s head. He always had tried to understand him, but he usually failed and it surprised him every time how different they were, even though they looked almost exactly the same.

“Don’t be like that,” James calmly, knowing exactly how to calm Sherlock. “It’s not like I suddenly left into the jungle.”

“I didn’t want to sleep,” Sherlock said stoically.

“Your body did,” James replied quickly and took another big bite, signalising that the discussion was over.

“Sherlock, a word?” Mycroft said, getting up from his chair. “I don’t suppose you want to have breakfast?”

“I don’t really want to talk to you either,” Sherlock said coolly.

“I fear it will have to be one of it,” Mycroft insisted and gently shoved his younger brother back through the door he had come through. He closed the door and led Sherlock a few steps away from it, to make sure the others would not be able to hear them, as he tried finding the right words. “Don’t you think you spend a bit too much time with our dear James?” he asked.

“You already made very clear what you think of it, Mycroft, and I already made clear that I don’t care.”

“Think about it, Sherlock,” Mycroft said seriously. “How do you think you will react to him, being taken away from you when you are getting used to him being around you all day and night now? I think, if you don’t spend any time with him, you would regret it afterwards, but if you get used to him being as close to you as is the case right now, you won’t know how to handle it.”

“I think I am very capable of making my own decisions, brother,” Sherlock replied angrily. “If James should ask me to leave him, I will. Until then I will not leave his side for one second. Don’t you have anything better to do than lecture me about how I should treat my brother? Or have you already given up on ruling this country?”

“I worry about you,” Mycroft said softly. “Both of you. I know I can’t protect James from the inevitable, but I thought I could spare you some of the pain you’re directing yourself into.”

“I don’t need your help,” the younger said, unimpressed by his brother’s care. “I’m not a child, Mycroft.” He quickly passed the elder and went back into the kitchen, leaving Mycroft behind. The politician sighed in frustration and buried his face in his hands.

He had tried, as so often, to be strong for everyone else, ever since he had guessed what was to come and it had not always been an easy job. James, of course, was brave as usual, trying to hide the worries he had, trying to laugh them away, though he did seem to get along quite well. Their mother on the other hand had been, and still was, an emotional wreck, unable to deal with her son’s sickness, but she did try very hard not to show it. 

Sherlock, however, was as usual. One of a kind. Getting him to admit that he did care and that he did not know how to react to it all was impossible. Getting him to confront his fear of seeing his favourite brother in this situation had been one of the hardest pieces of work Mycroft has ever had, though it was understandable why he had not wanted to see him. There were days when Mycroft himself wanted to get away from it all and ignore the fact that his family was about to fall apart even more.

Sherlock’s public display of emotions and affection for his twin and his excessive worries, competing with their mother’s, were probably even worse to bear and for Mycroft a sign that his little brother might completely lose himself when it was all over. It was a sign that he might be about to lose two brothers, instead of one, which – and he hated to admit that even only to himself – scared him incredibly. He had hoped that seeing James and spending some time with him, would help him to understand the others’ worries and maybe get away from the drugs, but now he had to fear that the troubles would become even worse, once this was all over.


	4. In A Little While I'll be Gone

Sherlock collapsed on the chair he had been spending so much time on already, after helping James back onto the bed. His condition had become a bit better and he could walk short distances alone, but other activities, like taking off his shoes were still a problem.

“When do we start?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“We?” James repeated surprised. “I didn’t think you were– I didn’t think you even wanted to come along.”

“Of course I want to,” he replied. “I told you I won’t leave you, unless you ask me to.”

“Sherlock,” James said chuckling. “Two or three of my friends will come along and the journey will take us days. Do you think you could stand each other for so long? Because I don’t. You usually can’t even be in the same room with them for more than an hour!”

“I’m sure I could try to improve my behaviour around other people, if I tried,” Sherlock said, his head held high.

James shook his head, still laughing. “You are brilliant, Sherlock. In many ways, but that’s not going to happen and you know it.” He pulled out a big bag from behind him and flung it on the floor between himself and his brother. For a moment he stared at the bag, before he looked back up at Sherlock, with a sad smile. “Stay here,” he said lowly. “It’s probably better for both sides and I won’t be gone too long.”

Sherlock threw his head back and opened his mouth, but immediately closed it again and swallowed. “Fine,” he whispered. “I will stay here.”

“I’m sorry,” James said. “I know you don’t like it, but I think it’s the best.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock repeated, trying to keep the distance.

“Here,” James said, reaching into a drawer of his nightstand and pulling out a small box in wrapping paper. “Since I won’t be there on our birthday, I thought I should give it to you know.”

“A skull?” Sherlock asked, shifting the package in his hand. “Is that a bad joke?”

“Stop spoiling your surprises,” James laughed. “It’s more than just that. But promise me not to open it, until our birthday, okay?”

“All right,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. For a moment he stared at his gift, lost in thought. “I don’t suppose there’s much sense in giving you something.”

“You could play me a song,” James replied smiling. “That would be a wonderful, early present and very much appreciated.”

“Oh god,” Sherlock said with a sigh and got up from his chair, took his violin out and played one of James’ favourite songs and for the first time since he has been forced to learn an instrument, he appreciated it. Not only the fact that he was able to do something for his brother that might help him to get his mind off the misery still lying before him and the pain he was in and replace it with something he enjoyed, but also the music itself. 

Never before had he paid attention to the emotions these songs held. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have understood them. How would he have been able to fully comprehend the sadness music resembled, when he has never been so sad – and scared of being even sadder – before? For the first time in his life, Sherlock understood the meaning behind the music his brother has loved for years already and understood why he has loved it so much. Playing the song made him feel less lonely in his misery. In all the time, he had the feeling that nobody, not even James, who had always understood him, had the slightest idea how he felt, but the song expressed perfectly what he had failed to describe and for as long as he kept playing, it helped him. He felt a lot less scared, sad and lonely, but understood.

“Wonderful,” James purred. “I don’t think you have ever been that good, before.”

Sherlock playfully bowed his head, an old habit from his youth when he had been forced to play more at home and bowing down like one of the professionals had become an inside joke between the twins. “Probably not,” he mumbled.

“A wonderful present,” James continued. “I doubt mine can keep up with that.”

“Oh, you never know,” Sherlock said with a cheeky smile. “Might come in handy one day.”

“Just don’t let it get you into trouble,” James said smiling wider than before. “I wouldn’t want that.”

“I know,” Sherlock said suddenly a lot sadder than before, after a short moment of silence.

“No,” James said firmly. “Don’t get sad again now. I’m going to enjoy life and so will you.”

Sherlock forced himself to a one-sided smile. “Of course.”

“Speaking of which,” James said, “will you be at our birthday party? Or will you disappear mysteriously as usual?”

Sherlock tilted his head, thinking about his options. “I haven’t decided yet. After all, it is your farewell party as well.”

“I’d thought you would prefer a more private farewell,” James said mildly surprised.

“Well, yes,” Sherlock said hesitantly.

“Then it doesn’t make a difference, does it?” James smiled. “You won’t say goodbye in public, so if you want to say anything, you’d probably do it before.”

Sherlock threw his head back, with a smug grin. “Good deduction. However,” he said, getting up to walk his line through the room again, “it would mean I couldn’t use the time we’ve got to full capacity.”

“Now, don’t make a fuss about one hour, Sherlock.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock said defensively. “I’m just…calculating.”

A knock on the door interrupted the twins’ argument and Mycroft entered, before either of them could reply.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “How are you, James?”

“Quite good,” he replied. “You?”

“I’m fine. But I fear,” he said slowly, with his brows narrowed, “that I won’t be able to attend your birthday party. I just got a call. Work, you see.”

“That’s okay,” James said smiling. “I know your job won’t do itself.”

“Well, that’s a good reason for me to stay then,” Sherlock said. “You need at least one brother there and without Mycroft it will be a lot more bearable.”

“Actually,” Mycroft said with a heavy sigh, causing the twins to give him a surprised, almost shocked look, accompanied by Sherlock almost unnoticeably shaking his head. “I am sorry, Sherlock, but we will need you there.”

“No,” Sherlock said decisively. “You can’t make me.”

“I know it is too much to ask,” Mycroft said slowly, unable to look at either of his brothers, “and I wouldn’t do it, if it was not absolutely necessary.”

“I won’t help you,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock,” James interrupted the two. “Didn’t I just tell you that it’s okay for you not to be there? If Mycroft needs you, you should just go along. Your brain will thank you for it.”

“We will have to start the previous day,” Mycroft explained. “If we hurry, maybe we can make it back in time, but I can’t promise it.”

For a moment Sherlock continued his stride up and down the room, holding his hands in his usual prayer-position, from time to time shaking his head a bit. Then he took a short glance at James and turned back at Mycroft. “All right, but we need to be back in time.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “It is just as much in my interest as in yours.”


	5. The Moment's Already Passed

The twins looked at each other, uncertain what to say or do.

“I know you don’t particularly like hugs,” James said a bit awkwardly, but trying to laugh it off as so often, “so I guess, a nod has to be enough. Unless, you would even go for a handshake.”

Sherlock, breathing deeply as he tried to keep control over his body, nodded quickly, then shook his head and slowly approached James, spreading his arms a bit. His brother returned the gesture gently, but a bit desperate. “It will be all right,” he whispered.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied softly, before they separated their hug. “Well,” he said, straightening himself up again, “Goodbye, James.”

“Bye, Sherlock,” the other said smiling. “Have fun working.”

Sherlock groaned, but did not take his eyes off his twin. He tried to memorise every detail of his brother, even though he had known everything about him for years already. He wanted to make absolutely sure that he would never forget a single freckle or hair. “I will be back as soon as I can,” he said and opened the door of the car, waiting behind him.

James stood and waved at his brothers, as they drove off, but could, due to the dark windows, not see what they did. He did not expect them to wave back; that was not something they would usually do. Then again, this was not a very usual situation.

Inside the car, the two brothers sat, staring at James. Neither of them moved or said anything, creating a tense atmosphere, neither of them was too concerned about. Their minds were with the brother they left behind and whether they would see him again, before he set off to his journey. They kept staring at the same spot they had seen James in last, until long after they lost him out of sight.

Mycroft was the first to move, shifting his head a bit and allowing himself a sad look. He did, however not say anything or even look over to his younger brother, purely out of respect for his desire for distance. The older had known Sherlock for long enough to know when he was not in the mood to speak and knew that it was probably the best not to talk to him for the rest of the ride.

Their silence was not broken until they arrived at their final destination. “I hope this is not all a waste of time,” Sherlock said grumpily, when he got out of the car and approached the building in which their client waited. Mycroft did not reply anything as he followed the younger, but he hoped the same, for the sake of Sherlock’s mood just as much as for James and himself.

James stretched out on his bed, enjoying the silence around him. As much as he loved being around his family and friends, being left alone for a while, especially after spending the past days in constant company was priceless. He listened to the birds outside his window and the leaves swaying in the wind and felt more relaxed than any time he could remember. For a while he even forgot about his pain and what was going to happen.

When the sky turned from bright blue to dark grey, he began to think about the future and how the others would go on without him. Thinking about Sherlock being without him was not impossible, he had often disappeared for days or weeks. Once he had gotten lost somewhere in Europe for an entire year, before Mycroft found him and brought him back home, but it felt wrong and after the previous days, in which Sherlock had been so clingy, he was slightly worried about his twin. Yet, he was certain that Mycroft would take good care of him. James smirked at the thought of his older brother. He had always tried to act strong and be the head of the family after they lost their father. Mother could not handle the boys alone, it had simply been too much for her, especially in the time of grief, but Mycroft had at all times managed to not only keep an eye on the younger ones, which by itself was quite difficult, but also knew how to keep them in control.

In all that time, James thought, nobody has ever asked Mycroft how he felt or given him a break to sort himself out. For years he had either been working or handled his family. A bad feeling spread in James’ stomach. How could he not have cared about that sooner? How could everybody just forget about Mycroft? Maybe it was the fact that he was so very good at hiding his worries, James pondered, as he turned on his side and curled up. He tries to be strong, so everyone else doesn’t have to and one day that might break him, he thought.

James lost himself in the thoughts of his family and did not notice that he fell asleep until his mother gently woke him to dinner.

Mycroft gave his younger brother a concerned look and sighed. “You excelled yourself, Sherlock. Solving such a difficult problem in less this short time is far more than I could have expected. Alone, I might have spent several days on it.” The younger did not look up at his praise, but stolidly stared out of the car window. “Don’t you want to get some sleep? You must be exhausted and there’s nothing better to do until we’re home.”

“I don’t need to sleep,” Sherlock said firmly. “My mind needs to be fresh when we arrive.”

“That is why I suggested-”

“You know that I work better when I do not sleep,” Sherlock interrupted him angrily. Then he sighed and returned to looking out of the window. “Do you think we will be there in time?”

“I do hope so,” Mycroft said heavily. “If we make it, we will only see them for a few minutes at best. We really are late.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. He had done his best to get over and done with the job, so they could return home in time to bid James goodbye and yet they were late, maybe too late. He didn’t like the thought of not seeing his twin again at all.

James on the other hand, who was at the same time busy celebrating his birthday a bit early with the rest of his family and some friends, was hoping his brothers would not make it in time. As much as he would have loved to see them before the trip, he knew that it would only make it more difficult for them. They all had already said their goodbyes and the way it was, it was perfect, James decided. Another look could make it so much harder for all of them.

When their car finally arrived at their old home, Mycroft and Sherlock immediately sprinted to the backyard. Of course they noticed that the red Jeep James and his friends had planned to use for the first part of their journey was missing, but they both ignored it for the sake of hoping to get one more glance at him, even if it was from a distance.

They only found a few guests cleaning up the tables from the party with their mother, who was smiling sadly. Her smile, however faded as soon as she saw her sons. “You just missed him,” he said sadly. “Only a minute, really.”

Mycroft let his head sink with a sigh. “Well, I guess,” he said heavily. “There’s nothing we can do about that. Should I help you clean up?”

“Oh no,” their mother replied. “You two just had some probably very stressful days. Sit down, have some of the cake, if you like, we’ve got a lot left over.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock replied.

“Rubbish,” his mother said firmly. “You need to eat more, Sherlock.”

The elder sighed as she left into the kitchen with some plates. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispered. “I had hoped we would make it in time.”

Sherlock didn’t reply anything. He blankly stared at the wall, his thoughts going so fast that he could not even process them himself. He did not even notice his brother putting his hand on his shoulder, when he did not know what to say anymore, because he knew that nothing could ever make up for Sherlock missing the opportunity to bid his brother goodbye.

The politician eventually sat down on one of the chairs, not feeling the slightest bit hungry. He just wanted his body to rest for a while and have a minute in silence to sort his thoughts.

“Don’t just stand there, Sherlock,” his mother tutted him when she came back into the room. “I know you will miss him, but he won’t be long.”

Finally, Sherlock moved. His eyes flickered to his mother and he turned his head a bit to see her face. He furrowed his brows, when he saw her smile. It was still that sad smile every mother shows, when a child leaves her.

“He’s only gone for a few days,” she reassured Sherlock. “He will be all right. He promised.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said numbly, trying to ignore Mycroft’s look. “Why would he lie?”


	6. I Will See You In The Next Life

Tiredly, Sherlock stumbled into his mother’s house, having lost every sense of time. He did not even know which day it was. He only knew, or thought to vaguely remember that he had not been home since his brother had left. He had spent his days mostly alone, partly in his own small flat, partly in the streets with drug-addicts and the homeless. Where he was hadn’t mattered to him, the only thing that had mattered to him was that he could get his mind off James, with more drugs than ever before.

For a moment Sherlock stood in the hall and wondered why exactly he had come back to his mother’s place. He didn’t like the house, nor the people inhabiting it very much and always preferred being in his own place. Then he remembered that his birthday present from James was still waiting for him.

His plan was to get to James’ old room, get his present and disappear without being seen or seeing anything of what was going on, but the door to the living-room happened to be open and he heard quiet sobbing from inside. He told himself not to care and not to look, but when he saw his mother cry bitterly from the corner of his eye, he stopped and looked at her for a moment. “Did James come back?” he asked, sarcastically and immediately wondered why he had done it. Perhaps, he had to admit, he was not as sober as he had thought.

His mother looked at him with big, watery, red eyes, trying to control herself for a moment. “Mycroft said,” she said choking down a sob. “He said he will never come back.” She helplessly shook her head and sunk together, as she burst into tears again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes sighing and took a short look around the room, gathering information about where Mycroft was now – certainly quicker than getting his mother to speak again, he thought. He turned on the spot and walked down the hall to the office, where he expected his brother.

When he entered the room without knocking, he found Mycroft reading papers, just as calm as usual, but Sherlock knew that something must have been wrong. The elder adored their mother and would never do anything to hurt her. In fact, he usually tried his best to protect her from Sherlock’s crudeness and often eased her worries. Telling her about James’ plan before it was absolutely necessary in such a coldhearted way and then not helping her deal with it was rather strange.

“Oh,” Mycroft smiled at his younger brother. “What an unexpected pleasure, to have you back here. Though, you don’t seem to be too well.”

Sherlock stared at his brother, waiting for an explanation or anything in his voice, body language or choice of words that could give him away.

“I don’t suppose you have talked to Mummy already?” He took a look up and down at Sherlock. “No, obviously not, you’ve only just arrived. You should go to her,” he said seriously. “She is terribly worried about you. Not a single word from you in three days and no sign of where you are, along with your obvious drug-use, you know how it upsets her.”

“Oh, you think that’s what upset her?” Sherlock said in a calm but stern voice. “Not the fact that you told her everything about James’ plans so bluntly?”

Mycroft pressed his lips together and blew his nostrils. “She knew very well what was coming, she just liked clinging to her hope,” he said.

“What was it that made you say it?” Sherlock asked with furrowed brows, knowing that what Mycroft had just said was a lie.

The elder sighed and looked down. “I shouldn’t have– It doesn’t matter.”

“No, probably not,” Sherlock said, taking a few steps through the room, examining some of the things on the table, “but you do know my curiosity.” He looked closely at his brother, who refused to give an answer. “Was it something she said? Have you finally had enough of her naivety?”

“It was for her own good,” Mycroft finally said. “Believing so strongly in something only makes it more difficult to accept that it’s not going to happen. The longer she would have believed it, the worse it would have become. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Sherlock smiled grimly. He knew that everything except the last sentence was a lie. Probably, he thought, Mycroft wanted to make himself believe he had only the best intentions. “So you finally lost it,” he said calmly. “After years of shaming me for my impatience with that woman, the perfect son finally did something hurtful. And it’s even worse than most things I have done,” Sherlock said smiling a bit, as he backed out of the room. “This is brilliant.”

Mycroft was left behind in the office by his brother. He had tried to ignore the guilt and make himself believe that he had done the right thing, that it all wouldn’t be too bad in the end, but he knew that Sherlock was right. His younger brother’s condition however worried him. The family never had been happy about Sherlock’s drug-use, lack of sleep and disappearances, which could last weeks. He had feared James’ death could upset him and make things worse, but he had hoped that he might be able to protect him from the worst. Now he felt as if he had failed at everything he had been trying to fix over the previous years. He could not protect either of his brothers and not support his mother the way he thought he should have. He felt as if he had to watch his family fall apart and there was nothing he could do because he had missed his chance.

 

When Sherlock entered James’ old room, where he had left his present, he suddenly felt sadness overwhelm him. After seeing Mycroft fail at something he had prided himself with for years, he had felt incredibly enthusiastic, though, he had to admit, the drugs in his system probably played a role too. Now the he entered the room, he remembered what he had lost and the pain of it was almost unbearable.

He swallowed, crossed the room quickly, took the little, wrapped box and burst out of the house as quickly as he could, completely ignoring his mother’s sniffling. He only concentrated on getting out of the place he despised now even more than ever before, without a breakdown.

Sherlock walked a long distance, quickly, concentrating on his aim, speed and breathing as he tried to ignore the constant banging in his head.

He did not stop or slow down, until he reached his hiding place, which he had often visited in the past. It was difficult to find, even for Mycroft, and left few traces. It was also mostly quiet and if somebody was around, it was somebody who was just as hated and lost as Sherlock himself.

Sherlock sat himself down on the floor and lit a cigarette to calm himself. He started to wonder how seeing a room, he had seen so many times in his life could upset him so greatly. He had known what was going to happen all along and the room itself had not changed one bit, since the last time he had been inside and yet, it all hurt.

He stubbed out his cigarette, when he had finished it and picked up his present again. For a bit, he kept shifting the package in his hands, wondering whether there was any point in opening it, since he already knew what was inside, but he remembered James telling him that it was more than just a skull and Sherlock could not imagine what it was. Part of him was scared of it, knowing that whatever was inside might hurt just as much as seeing James’ room.

He took another deep breath and opened the box, hoping that it would not be too hurtful. A skull looked up at him as he opened it and he had to admit that he quite liked it. But when he took it out, he also found a small, folded piece of paper taped to it. Uncertain and a bit scared, he unfolded it and felt a sting in his heart, when he saw James’ handwriting.

_Sherlock, I am truly sorry to ruin your birthday, it read, but if you read this, it means I have gone on the planned journey. You probably knew it for a while already, but I am not going to come back. So, this is my note._  
I want to decide how my life should end and I don’t want to be due to the cancer. I’m tired of the constant pain, the drugs, and the drugs I have to take for the drugs. I hope you understand and I do hope that you will get along. I am not going to ask you to live for me, but I will ask you to enjoy life and not ruin yours. This all might be very painful for you and I wish I would have had more time, but I fear there’s nothing we can do about it.  
So I raise a morphine toast to you. And, if you happen to celebrate the anniversary of our birth, remember that you were loved by me. And that you made my life a happy one, and there’s no tragedy in that. 

Sherlock pulled his knees up and pressed his eyes against them, in an attempt to ease the shaking of his body. Every part of his body was aching, as if he was being ripped apart. He wanted to scream in pain, but his throat only produced a miserable whimper. He didn’t feel the tears come from his eyes, but he felt his intestines rebel. His lungs refused to work, while his heart violently beat against his rips. “You fuck–” he cried, interrupted by his own pained scream.

For the next two hours he sat there, shaking under tears, feeling as if his whole body was set on fire, without saying anything else. From time to time he sobbed loudly, but he did not move or speak, until he had become so tired from crying that he simply could not go on. Only then, he lay down and rolled up, clutching the skull his brother had given him to his chest. “Why did you have to go?” he whispered, emptily staring into the darkness. “What am I supposed to do without you? How am I supposed to go on? What am I without you?”


	7. I Slipped Away

Blissfully smiling, Sherlock entered the building of Scotland Yard and went right to one of the bigger offices in the back. D.I. Lestrade the door said. Sherlock knocked and entered before he got a response. “You there,” he said, gesturing toward the confused policeman inside. “It wasn’t the husband, who killed Judy Williams, it was her lover!”

“And how the hell do you know that?” the detective asked suspiciously.

“Well, I’m clever,” Sherlock replied as if it were the most obvious answer. “The signs are right there, I could solve it from reading the paper, how could you miss all that?”

“There are absolutely no signs that Ms Williams had a lover,” the elder answered.

“Of course there are, you just didn’t notice! His name’s Eric Bateman, lives in Bishopswood Road,” Sherlock explained, feeling slightly annoyed that the police-force could overlook such obvious things.

“Are you drunk?” Lestrade asked, after taking a closer look at the stranger, who gave him a baffled look. “You can’t just walk in here, drunk as a lord and act as if you have just solved the case by looking at a paper.”

“I don’t act as if, I have!” Sherlock protested.

“I think you’re trying to make a bloody joke. Or maybe you have done it yourself and now try to fool us.”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock asked seriously confused. “If I had done it, I certainly would not just walk in here and tell you details about the case you clearly have missed. Just pay him a visit, I’m certain you will find him guilty.”

Reluctantly Lestrade picked up the phone and sent two officers to the man’s address. When he hung up, Sherlock unconvincingly smiled at him and turned to go.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” the DI barked. “You’re not going anywhere until I know how you could know those things. Considering that he actually is guilty and you’re not just some wasted loner trying to prank us.”

Sherlock sighed and collapsed onto one of the chairs in the Detective’s office. “It’s not a prank.”

“Then how do you know it?” the older asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You can’t know it from the paper. There’s no way you can see something in there we have missed when we have more information.”

“Apparently it is possible,” Sherlock said, tempted to roll his eyes in frustration. “Her jewellery was mostly cheap, except for the wedding ring, but her dress was expensive. She was trying to impress someone, but couldn’t afford much. She was not even used to wearing any attire, obvious from the tiny rashes around it. Now, whom would she want to impress? Certainly not her husband, she’d not wear a new dress when she’s out to impress him. Can’t be an employer or anything of that sort, the dress was too colourful – people prefer black, grey or sometimes white for business – and showed off her breasts and legs. So, lover.”

The Inspector looked at Sherlock with big eyes. “Are you making this up?”

“Of course not,” the younger said, rolling his eyes.

“Okay,” Lestrade said, slowly nodding, as he tried to process everything he just had been told. “How do you know who her lover was and that he killed her, not her husband? He’d have a reason, if he found out about her affair.”

“Oh, no, he’s oblivious,” Sherlock said quickly. “Probably doesn’t care very much anyway. It’s obvious, because there was dirt from shoes around her, wasn’t there?”

“Yes, but there were not enough traces–”

“It was a bit lighter and dryer than the earth anywhere around that place. It’s a special kind of earth, used by gardeners to grow plants, which don’t grow too well in our wet, soft earth. There are not too many people in London who use that, so we can be certain it was one of them – or maybe their neighbour. If you looked closely, there was also a leaf underneath her. Not from any tree of course, but from one that requires this special earth you found on the victim. Now guess how many of the people who could have transported the dirt to her, have them anywhere near their own home.”

Lestrade tucked the bridge of his nose between his finger and his thumb and sighed. “There is no way you could figure that all out with one look.”

“Well, I did pay the suspects a visit and looked for traces,” Sherlock admitted. “But it all was rather obvious, before.”

“Obvious, yes,” Lestrade said, while he ruffled his hair, feeling a bit at loss for words. He did not find anything the young man said the slightest bit believable and was considering to arrest him as a suspect, but a call interrupted his thoughts. He answered the phone, not taking his eyes off the younger. “Okay, good,” was all he replied before he hung up and took a deep breath?

“Anything new?” Sherlock asked playfully.

“They found evidence at his place and he admitted to have killed her,” the Inspector said, gravely confused.

“Am I free to go then?” he asked and already jumped up from his chair.

“Yes, sure,” the older said slowly, as he watched Sherlock stagger out of his office, wondering what just happened. He felt unsure what he should make of the man and whether he would want to ever see him again. After all, he had just solved a case and saved an innocent man from prison, but he also seemed very strange and nothing he said seemed to make any sense.

When he left his office an hour later, Mycroft already expected him. The tall man seemed a rather intimidating in the dark, but tried not to scare Lestrade too much. “I believe, my brother paid you a visit today,” was the first thing he said, when he stood next to the Inspector.

“The drunk guy?” he asked, after a moment.

“Yes, that would be him,” Mycroft replied and Lestrade wondered whether it was shame or sadness he saw in the other’s face, hidden behind a cold smile. “I would just like to advise you to listen to him whenever he’s got a tip for you.”

“And who the hell are you, besides his brother?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” he replied smiling. “I’ve got a minor position in the government, but–”

“That doesn’t mean I have to listen to you,” Lestrade finished the sentence for him.

“Certainly not,” Mycroft admitted, “but I am sure that he can be of help for you. Besides, it would help me to keep track of him and assure that he does not,” he stopped and thought about the right word for a moment, “slip.”

“I’m not your babysitter,” the older said firmly. “If you can’t handle your brother, I am sorry, but that is your problem, not mine.” He turned away from the taller and went on his way home.

For a few more seconds Mycroft stood in the dark and followed him with his eyes, hoping he would change his mind.

Of course he knew that it was his job, not the police’s, to take care of his brother, but he also knew that it had become impossible for him to give Sherlock the time and attention he needed since he had started working for the government. He has, for quite some time, had the feeling he had done everything wrong with Sherlock, but he still sustained some hope that someone would be able to make up for the mistakes he had made, that somebody would become friends with Sherlock, as unlikely as it seemed, and fill the hole James had left in him. Maybe, he thought, he would even find forgiveness for his older brother and all the mistakes and bad decisions he had made.

On his way home, Lestrade stopped at a pub for a pint. It had been a rather stressful day for him. He sat down at the bar and silently drank his beer, blending out the voices around him, as he thought about what Mycroft had said. He understood the brother’s worries only too well, but there was little he could do if the younger didn’t try himself. Though Lestrade knew that it was too early to judge, he thought Sherlock could certainly be of help, if he could lose his attitude, which was more than only a bit annoying. He was certain that, if he tried, he could surely pass all tests to become an officer. 

After a few minutes, the Inspector decided that it did not do him any good to think about the brothers. The problems they had were between them and he had nothing to do with it. He took a glance around, looking for some sort of distraction, and found the younger of the two brothers arguing with another person, who seemed close to punching him in the face.


	8. Help Me Get Back Where I Belong

Quickly the cop stepped between the two men, before either of them got hurt and pulled Sherlock aside, mumbling a quick apology to the other, blaming whatever he might have done on the influence of alcohol.

“What the hell did you do?” he asked worriedly, but slightly amused, after he had manoeuvred him to the bar.

“I was deducing,” Sherlock replied proudly, “but he didn’t seem to like the truth.”

“And what exactly did you deduce?”

Sherlock lazily waved a hand. “Just the usual stuff, where he comes from, what his job is, the simple things.”

“You can tell those things by looking at people?” he asked disbelieving. “You’re kidding. Nobody can do that.”

The younger sighed heavily. “I can tell that you’ve gotten married four months ago, probably won’t last, she likes excitement, which is why she’s married a cop, but with time she’ll probably get bored and look for something new. You’re also thinking about children already, though you’re not too sure whether it’s too early, considering that it won’t last, the answer is probably yes. Want to hear more?”

Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a moment. “I can see why that guy wanted to punch you.”

The taller nodded tiredly. He’s heard those kinds of remarks often enough.

“Somebody must have told you,” Lestrade said. “There’s no way you can see that.”

“Who could have told me?” Sherlock asked seriously. “You didn’t tell anyone about your doubts.”

“What’s your name?” the older asked, attempting to change the topic, which started to scare him slightly.

“Sherlock.”

“Well then, Sherlock,” Lestrade said bossy. “If you’re so clever, why don’t you work for us?”

The younger rolled his eyes. “Police-work is dull. All that paperwork,” he shook his head.

“You could do something good though. You could save lives,” he plead.

“Dull,” Sherlock shouted. “I don’t care about people, I just want a distraction.”

“Tell you what,” Lestrade said. “There’s another case we’re kind of stuck with. If you help us out, I’ll treat you with a drink, all right?”

“If you’re talking about the Talbot-case,” Sherlock said dryly. “It was his son.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Lestrade asked shaking his head.

“The garden-shed!” the younger shouted as he got up. “Keep your drink, I’ll go get something better.”

“I hope you mean something legal,” Lestrade said and Sherlock smirked back at him, before he left the pub without another word. After a short moment of hesitation, the Inspector decided to follow him and was instantly hit by a cold breeze. “Aren’t you cold?” he asked the younger, when he noticed his thin clothes.

Sherlock seemed to think about it for a moment. “Now that you say it, yes, I might be.”

The elder gave him a confused look. “Should I take you home or call someone?” he asked worriedly. After all, his job did include protecting others, sometimes even of themselves or the cold and even though he was off duty, he was still an officer.

“No, I’ll be fine,” Sherlock said, highly concentrated on finding out where he wanted to go next. The little voice in the back of his head told him to get a jacket and keep himself warm, to stay alive and stay safe, but just like he’s had for the past week, he had the strong urge to disobey that voice which sounded too much like James and hurt every time he heard it, and shut it up with anything he could find, even if it would cost his life. He sighed, when he remembered that one of the last things his twin had asked him to do, was to have a good life and that implied staying alive a bit longer. Maybe, he thought, the voice would shut up if he obeyed and did whatever it asked him to do.

Lestrade could see the young man think intensely, see his mind rattle and almost did not dare to interrupt him, but he was still worried about him. He was obviously a clever man, but he might be on the best way to ruin his life. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t need anything?”

Sherlock, having almost forgotten where he was, gave him a surprised look. “I’ll be fine. Why are you even still here? You should go home to your wife, before she gets her child from someone else,” he said gruffly and walked away.

Until he disappeared, Lestrade stood still and watched him, unsure whether he should let him go alone. When Sherlock was out of sight, he turned away and made his way home, too, hoping the younger would be all right and not do anything too stupid.

Suppressing a groan, Sherlock fell onto the floor of his twin’s old room, which looked as usual, but somehow colder and empty. It was just clothes and furniture. 

He knew from experience that his mother usually noticed him sneaking in or out the house through the front door, no matter what time, or how old he was, but climbing through James’ window had always been safe and therefore become a habit which now that he didn’t want to see anyone seemed convenient enough.

He picked himself up and walked over to James’ bed, where he stood in the shadow, just looking through the room for a while. The whole scene felt so familiar to him, it was almost exactly like it had been when he was a teenager, but something was different, something was missing.

Feeling a heavy weight in his chest, Sherlock gently stroked the pillow on the bed and realised how much he missed his twin’s comments on sneaking out, even the lecturing ones, how he missed him giggling at Sherlock’s incapability of standing up straight when he was drunk. He even missed the light breathing of his sleeping brother, he would never witness again. “Not fair,” he mumbled, almost without noticing, sill stroking the bed. He did not dare sit down on it, as if that would erase the memories he had or even erase James himself from all of history.

Then he straightened himself up, strode towards the wardrobe, took out James’ favourite coat and scarf and put them on. His eyes fell upon the mirror and he could not help but smile. What he saw, looked a lot more like his twin than himself. It was almost like James was there with him.

After enjoying his image for a moment, he turned back and took a pair of his twin’s better clothes, closed the wardrobe and climbed back out of the window he had come through. While on his way home, he could feel himself sober up, a feeling he had tried to avoid during the past few days, out of fear of the sadness, anger and all-surrounding emptiness. This time, however, he was not scared of it. He still felt sad, a bit angry and like a big part of himself was missing, but not as empty as usual, at least not the same, cold way as usual. Instead, he felt safe, almost happy, surrounded by the warmth of the coat and the well-known smell.

Forgetting his original plan, to get his next shot as soon as possible, Sherlock went home instead, to finally catch some sleep, after being awake for days. He fell asleep, taking only the coat and scarf off, but otherwise fully dressed.

He slept deeply and dreamed of better times, when James was still around. He even dreamed that James came back, telling him that it all had been nothing more than a terrible, distasteful joke, but it was all over now.

When Sherlock awoke, the sun was already high in the sky, lighting up the room. His eyes immediately fell onto the coat he had carelessly thrown onto the end of his bed and he realised that all those things really had been nothing but dreams. Nothing more than mere imagination and he remembered again that James was irreversibly gone, taken away from him for all eternity. The well-known, painful coldness inside his chest quickly took hold of him, until it was almost impossible to breathe.

Shaking, he pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He felt almost disturbingly sober and now regretted that he didn’t get any stock. For several minutes, he just lay on the bed, shaking, wishing someone would just burst into the room and shoot him up. He did not have the energy to get what he needed so badly himself. He hardly had enough energy to get out of bed at all.

How could he be so miserable, he wondered, but so happy in his dreams? Maybe dreaming was the only way he could ever be happy again.

His eyes became clearer, his body stopped shaking and his lips hardened, when he realised what he had to do, when he realised what was, or so he thought, the only right and sensible thing to do, to stop his pain.

Feeling a bit unstable, Sherlock pulled himself up and slowly slipped off the bed. With small, shaking, but nevertheless determined steps, he crossed the room and headed towards the kitchen.


	9. You Never Understand

Worried, Mycroft opened the door to his younger brother’s flat, after having knocked several times without receiving an answer. Even someone without his deduction-skills would have been able to tell what had happened within a few seconds, but he still was shocked.

The flat was still the same orderly mess (as Sherlock called it) as usual, but in the bedroom, usually the cleanest of Sherlock's rooms, he found an empty wine bottle lying on the floor, with a few tiny white pills scattered around it. Sherlock himself was lying on his bed, face down, one arm fallen onto the floor. Mycroft quickly stepped towards him. Pulse and breathing were normal, but he was unresponsive. After turning him into a safer position, Mycroft collapsed onto a chair with a heavy sigh. Sherlock’s life was not in immediate danger from the mix of red-wine and sleeping pills he had taken and the politician could tell that he had not aimed for suicide, simply because he knew that if he had, he would have succeeded, because he knew how to and probably would have chosen a more successful method, but he could also tell that the younger has had little care about his own safety.

Burying his face in his hands, Mycroft tried to think of what he’d do next. The most sensible thing seemed to get Sherlock into a clinic, to help him with all his problems, but he knew how his little brother would behave and he did not want to do that to his brother, nor to the nurses and doctors, who’d have to fight him. Besides, he never had a very high opinion of therapists. He knew of the mistakes they made, he knew how many of them completely failed to understand his brother’s behaviour, would blame it on all the wrong things and force him to simply stop doing the things he needed to do and he knew that the wrong treatment could make matters even worse then they already were.

The older looked back up at his brother and smiled sadly. Very suddenly, he missed the times when they were younger, when it was easy to keep Sherlock happy. Every once in a while somebody thought of a riddle for him, the more difficult, the better and he would be busy for hours, sometimes days, trying to solve it. A good book, a riddle or anything that could stimulate his brain was all he needed. The most fun Sherlock, and in fact all three of them, Mycroft realised, have had, was when the brothers went to explore something. Finding new places, analysing plants and insects they found along the way and more often than not, some sense of danger, shared with people they truly liked and who understood why it was so much fun and Mycroft being seven years older was an advantage, because he could teach and supervise them at the same time.

Mycroft was ripped out of his thoughts by a muffled moan, coming from his younger brother. It was hard to tell, whether he had woken up or not. His eyes were still closed and his face as expressionless as before and Mycroft knew very well that, with that amount of toxic he had in his body, he would be unable to move for quite some time. The elder gently called his brother and got another moan as response. Though, this one sounded more miserable than the last and immediately alarmed the elder.

He quickly hurried over to his brother. “Sherlock, can you hear me?” he asked, grabbing the younger one’s shoulders.

Sherlock made a raspy sound and opened his eyes slowly. The sharp, cold, grey eyes had turned cloudy, soft and expressionless again. Mycroft had seen it quite often, but he was still worried and hurt by it and had to fight the urge to punch the younger one for his stupidity, but then Sherlock started to move his lips a bit, as if he was trying to say something, but was unable to produce the sound and he looked so helpless that Mycroft immediately forgot his anger. He gave his brother a questioning look, as he tried to read his lips, but he couldn’t make out very much and Sherlock decided to try again. This time he was a bit more audible, but still, Mycroft could only make out small fragments of words, not enough to make sense.

“Don’t try to speak now, Sherlock,” he finally said with a sigh. “It costs you too much energy. You’re not in danger, I think. Everything you want to say, you can tell me later.”

The younger’s lips started shaking a tiny bit and he looked more miserable than ever, with a childlike helplessness. He needed to tell Mycroft. He needed to tell him that moment, because he knew, he’d not be able to, once he had sobered up. 

What he failed to recognise, was that his body still refused to do what he wanted and he only made a screeching noise, which sounded like he was about to cry.

Mycroft, hurt to see him like this, gently patted his brother’s head and forced himself to a smile. “It will be all right,” he assured him, then sat down on the bed. “I think, this is by far the most stupid and reckless thing you have done in your life and I hope you will explain why.”

Breathing heavily, Sherlock closed his eyes. He wanted to tell him, the whole time he was trying to make himself clear, but Mycroft would not listen, he thought. If he really tried, he could read it in his face, before Sherlock said something. Read it on his lips or he could just try and listen, if he wasn’t so full of himself and would finally shut up. But he wouldn’t because he doesn’t care, because he never cared enough. Sherlock was sure that was the reason. All his older brother cared about now was his reputation and Sherlock could destroy it, that’s the only reason he cared about his survival, the only reason he was there.

“And I hope,” Mycroft continued, “that you will let me help you. I think we both can agree that you don’t feel too well at the moment and I don’t want to lose another brother any time soon.”

It was difficult for Mycroft to show so much of himself, but it was even harder for Sherlock to be unable to walk away and to be forced to listen to his brother. He tried to say his brother’s name, to shut him up, but in only came out as a weak moan and made him feel very sick, very suddenly. He loudly gasped for air and coughed hard, almost throwing up, while the elder pulled him up, to make breathing easier for him.

For a few more minutes, both just sat there in complete silence, Mycroft watching his brother closely and Sherlock trying to breathe calmly, to make the nausea go away. He could hear his own breathing very loudly through the blood rushing through his body and his heartbeat. He could feel every single beat, every bit of blood rushing through his veins and he hated all of it. He hated the beating of his heart and wanted it to stop, just like his breathing, which annoyed him so.

When Sherlock’s breath had stabilised, Mycroft softly let him back down onto the pillow and sat himself back down. He decided to remain silent for the moment, which the younger welcomed. The heartbeat had now spread and was no longer only a stable drum in his chest, but also a very recognisable pounding in his head and limbs.

After some time, Sherlock rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up, almost without noticing that he could move again. He could feel Mycroft’s look pierce his back, when he moved, but he did not want to reply or even admit that he noticed. He did not want to communicate with Mycroft at all. He would be fine with them ignoring each other until they died, he thought. More than just fine even. Sherlock would have loved not to have to see him again, not after he took his last chance to see James.

The more he thought about it, the more certain Sherlock felt that all of this was Mycroft’s fault. Maybe – probably – it would have been easier to deal with everything, if he would have had a real chance of bidding farewell, instead of making somewhat of a promise he did not keep. The thought that his last words to James were “I will be back as soon as I can,” made him want to punch himself in the face. He knew that it could have been his last chance to see him, why didn’t he come up with something better? What must James have thought of that, he wondered.

Mycroft cleared his throat and pulled his brother back into reality. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” His tone was soft, a bit worried and very unusual for the politician.

“No,” Sherlock said firmly and wished the elder would just disappear and finally leave him alone.

“What did you want to tell me earlier?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said angrily.

Mycroft opened his mouth, but closed it again, without saying anything. He knew Sherlock wanted to tell him something important earlier, something that obviously could not wait until he was better. He had feared the younger might change his mind, once he had sobered up. There was no sense in trying to force him. Sherlock was too stubborn.

With a sigh Mycroft got up. “I believe there are some cases you might find interesting. Try working on them, rather than,” he paused as he took a look around, “this.” There was fear in his voice, buried under disgust.

Sherlock only replied with a groan, not bothered to turn around and take a look at his brother.

“This country needs you Sherlock,” Mycroft admitted, “and I would like to see you having a good life. One you don’t spend in bed, knocked out on drugs.” The elder turned around and left the flat with a racing heart, hoping that Sherlock would consider changing. He did not notice, that the younger’s heart almost stopped at what he said. It was so similar to what James had written in his note that Sherlock suspected Mycroft to have read it at some point.

Maybe he got one too, Sherlock thought and realised that for some reason, he had assumed he was the only one who had gotten a note from his twin. The memories still hurt him, but he was also angry that Mycroft would use James’ words against him, without a care of how hurtful it was. Maybe the older didn’t know how much it really meant to him, but he had guessed it before. _I tried to tell him,_ Sherlock remembered, _but he didn’t listen. He doesn’t care._


	10. I Go Where I Please

Lestrade looked suspiciously at the tall, thin figure, approaching his crime-scene. It took him a while to realise that it really was Sherlock. He looked even thinner and sicker than last time.

“Where did you get that coat?” Lestrade asked, trying to sound matter-of-factly.

“Do you like it?” Sherlock countered with the hint of a smile.

Lestrade nodded lightly and decided to leave it, hoping that it was not stolen. There were more important things going on that moment, like deaths, escaped murderers and a very sick looking young man who Lestrade was breaking all the rules for by letting him inspect his crime-scene.

“Listen,” he said lowly. “You know I’m not really allowed to let you in here, so don’t touch anything, leave no traces-”

“I’m not an idiot,” Sherlock snapped.

“Just wanted to make myself clear,” the D.I. said firmly. For a moment he looked closely at Sherlock and sighed. “You can’t come here high.”

“I’m not–” Sherlock began, but noticed there was no sense in denying it. Lestrade was not as stupid as he liked to believe.

“I can’t let you in here like that. Letting you in is against the rules anyway, I’m trying to do you – both of us a favour, at least be sober.”

Sherlock nodded tiredly. “I’m sober enough for this, just give me two minutes.”

The elder took a look around, unsure what to do. On the one hand, the young man was a great help and having him around was the easiest way to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. On the other hand, he could not have him at the crime scene like this. If anybody found out, he’d be losing his job immediately. He took a deep breath and lowered his head. “If you behave normal, don’t touch anything and let us do our job, I can give you a moment.” He couldn’t believe he really said that, he actually let a random drug-addict look at corpses, because he was that desperate. “But if you,” he said, looking up, just to find that Sherlock was already rushing towards the victim, looking somewhat majestically, with his coat fluttering behind him.

The two minutes Sherlock was given were more than enough to gather the information he needed. It was not difficult for him to ignore the looks the officers gave him and only slightly more distracting, when they whispered, wondering who he was and why he was there. Once he had found the concentration he needed, it was easy to blend everything else out. He told the DI what he knew, but spoke so fast, that Lestrade had troubles following and he had to repeat what he has said. He hated repetition.

“Who is he?” Sergeant Donovan asked curiously, once Sherlock left the crime-scene. “Why is he allowed in here?”

“He is,” Lestrade said slowly, trying to come up with some explanation, “someone very intelligent. He could be of great help for us. You’ve seen him over there, he’s brilliant. How clever do you think he could be, if we sort him out?”

“Sir,” Sally said and cleared her throat, “isn’t that against the rules? We’re not here to keep people off the streets, we-”

“Listen,” the elder interrupted her abruptly. He knew she had a point, he knew she was absolutely right with everything she wanted to say, but he didn’t want to hear it. Somehow he liked the kid and it would have been a pity to let his genius go to waste, he thought. “You’re only working with me for a week, and it’s great you ask questions and all, but trust me. I make the decisions here. If he makes a mistake, I will take the full responsibility for it, but so far, he’s smarter than all of us together. He can solve cases we spend weeks on in just minutes. We can need him and he needs us.”

Donovan nodded, her lips pressed together. She still doubted his decision, but decided not to say anything about it. Maybe he knew something she didn’t, she thought. Maybe they had worked together before, when she hadn’t been around yet. She decided to keep an eye on the intruder, though. She was everything but ready to trust him. People make mistakes and she would take care that neither Lestrade, (who seemed too biased to make a responsible decision,) nor his mysterious friend would ruin a case.

Sherlock sat down on his bed and took his typical prayer position. The case had not exactly been exciting, though more exciting than the past few days. He had been forced to spend time just sitting around, with nothing to do. His mind needed a distraction again soon, he knew, though he might risk not being allowed on Lestrade’s next crime-scene, if his timing for the next shot was bad. Maybe he would not be allowed on any case ever again. He definitely needed to find something to keep him occupied. As long as he did not encounter the DI while he was on drugs, he’d be fine.

He hoped Lestrade would see that he was not an idiot, that he would let him do whatever he wanted to do, and that he would let him help with the more exciting cases.

A smirk curled Sherlock’s lips. If he won’t get called to the exciting cases, he decided, he would just have to find his own cases. There were more than enough crimes he could solve within minutes, but also enough cases he could direct his entire attention towards and more than enough, sometimes dangerous people, who needed to be caught. A chase would be the perfect distraction.

The smile quickly faded. He had almost forgotten what he wanted to distract himself from, what he was running away from. He had tried very hard to lock James out, but now he remembered. Not that he wanted to, but somehow his brother always found a way back. He knew exactly what he’d say now, he could even see his smile. James would have been happy to know Sherlock finally got what he wanted.

Without paying attention to the time, Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play. He knew James wouldn’t be able to hear or appreciate it, but he had figured that it helped him. Not only because knowing that someone else, even if they had lived centuries ago, had felt the same way made him feel less lonely, but also because it reminded him of James, in a way that did not hurt as much as everything else. When he looked out of the window, concentrating on his play, it was almost as if his twin sat right behind him, enjoying the music.

He thought about his idea from earlier. Getting his own cases wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Years before, he had tried to become a private detective but had failed miserably. Obviously not for lack of skills, but because nobody had taken him seriously back then. He probably had been too young for people to believe he was able to solve a real puzzle, so most people wanted to hire him to find lost jewellery and cats or spy on partners to find out whether they’ve got an affair. His whole attempt almost escalated, when an elderly woman wanted him to find out where she had put her glasses and he considered shooting her.

Now that he was older, people might take him more seriously. He knew many people would consult him to find out about affairs and such trivia, but maybe he would be able to find something really interesting. When he ended his playing, he smiled again. The idea of becoming a detective seemed quite promising.

By the next morning he had set up a website, so people could easily find and contact him. He could decline the dull cases and only take the interesting ones, while he was still checking the papers for something to solve and waited for the police to call when they were out of their depth again.

Sherlock hoped he’d finally stay busy, keep himself distracted. Boredom and free time have always been dangerous for him. Now that those would give him time to think about James, it was even worse. Distracting himself from his twin felt like a betrayal to Sherlock. It felt like he was trying to abandon him, which he did not deserve, but the pain that thinking about him brought Sherlock was unbearable. He knew the pain would stop eventually; he would just have to blend it out until then.

His business took a while to go somewhere, but Lestrade started to trust him more, once he had gotten used to not appearing on crime-scenes while he was high. More of his private clients spread the word about him to friends and family. He was offered the most different cases, from finding out about affairs, which usually took him a few seconds and an annoyed look, to break-ins and unreported kidnappings and murders. The cases he took did not always depend on the excitement it seemed to offer, but also on the client. He preferred helping someone poor and desperate with something they were sentimental about, especially if it led to the mind-wrecking, dangerous chase he would have liked, to helping someone rich, who offered him a lot of money, but asked for the wrong reasons any day.

One day a little, elderly woman consulted him, because she knew of her husband’s crimes and wanted him sentenced to death in Florida. She knew exactly what she wanted and was not as nice and innocent as she seemed, Sherlock noticed quickly, which is, why he gladly took the case and made sure her husband would not escape his sentence. Sherlock could read in her face how her husband had treated her over the years, though she did not show it and decided the man deserved it. He even worked for free, since she did not have a lot of money. After all, he had chosen his job for the brainwork, not the pay and working helped him to get over the pain of losing James. It took its time, but it did help him, though he never really stopped feeling lonely.


	11. Release me

Ms Hudson had curiously peeked through Sherlock’s possessions the day he moved in, picking out different things, and had sometimes suppressed a little disgusted shriek. Feeling equally amused and ashamed, Sherlock thought that she probably already regretted doing him this favour.

His last landlord and his neighbours had, just like those before, finally have had enough of him playing the violin at whatever time he pleased, his experiments, the weird smells coming from his flat and the general state of his flat and forced him to move. He did not say it, but he was endlessly thankful for Ms Hudson’s offer to rent a flat in her home, in exchange for him taking over her “case.”

It was a very nice, comfortable place. Certainly the best he could hope for, especially with his reputation. Big windows let in a lot of light, there was a fireplace, more than enough space for one man, and it was already furnished, which Sherlock was quietly thankful for as he certainly did not have the time or nerves to go shopping for furniture.

Sherlock had scattered his boxes all over the new flat at first and only unpacked a few things he found important. Mainly things he needed for cases, a few things he liked having around at all times and of course his skull. After all, he needed something to talk to, when he got a case.

The other things could be unpacked later, when he was going to need them. That is, if he was ever going to need them. Most of the things he had not yet unpacked were books of which he knew the content anyway. He just liked having them, in case he needed to prove something and there was no need to put them all up. Not that moment. He knew the exact spot of every book he owned and would be able to get it in seconds, whether it was on a shelf on in a box.

Sherlock looked happily around the flat once he had unpacked the most important things. He liked it. It looked a bit lonely, but it definitely felt like home. He could imagine staying here for the rest of his life, better than anywhere else, once there was more life in his new home, certainly. He could need a flatmate of some sort, he thought. Somebody who cleans up for him, Ms Hudson had already made clear she was not going to, somebody who could listen to him, help him even. Most importantly, he needed somebody who would keep Mycroft away, before the older decided to move in with Sherlock for his own safety.

As he took his coat, before leaving for another case and some experiments, he couldn’t hold back a little smile. His life had certainly changed to the better. He had never expected it to, but somehow things have gotten better and simpler, though he was still lonelier than ever before.

So much has happened since James died. Lestrade fully trusted him now and he finally got off the drugs, which has been a very long and sometimes, especially at the beginning, painful process. Sometimes, when he was lacking cases, it was still difficult not to turn back to them, but he was very determined to keep away from them. He had a landlady now, who knew exactly how to deal with people and would certainly not let him completely wreck himself. His work was going rather well and he could finally stand the thought of James without feeling like his heart was being ripped right out of his chest. (Though, he would never admit to anyone that he had one, let alone felt that way. He had never told anyone how he felt about James’ death, not since he had tried to tell Mycroft, when he was under the influence of wine and pills and there were not many other people he could have told.)

Of course he still missed his twin sometimes, but it was okay now. He was all right. Though, the skull James had given him had come in handy quite a few times already. It was easier to think when he could hear himself say what he was thinking and somehow it felt more natural to tell what he was thinking to someone, or something, than to talk to an empty room or street, even though the skull attracted more weird looks than Sherlock already managed to get without it.

He had even met some people who trusted him enough to assist his experiment, no matter how weird they seemed to them, which he found quite nice. It was good to have people, who let him work the way he wanted, who’d not force him to act normal and get bored. Yet, he still could not help feeling lonely, though that usually didn’t bother him too much. Sentiment is not an advantage, he knew. Most people didn’t understand him anyway, so there was no point of trying to bond with them.

By the time he moved into Ms Hudson’s flat in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock had already become a regular at St. Bart’s hospital. He had been lucky enough to find people there who were willing to support him, or at least, not outright dismiss him for being different, like most of Scotland Yard did. He was allowed to the laboratories to use their instruments and analyse traces he had found. Often times, he could even persuade the morgue attendant to let him experiment with the corpses and he had even acquainted a few people, he could have a conversation with, without the urge to shoot someone and without being incredibly bored.

Mike Stamford, one of the teachers, was surprisingly enough, one of these people. He did not seem very clever – he was not very clever, especially not compared to Sherlock – but he was not as much of an idiot as some people might have thought. After all, he was a trained medic, fully capable of teaching. More importantly even, he did not judge Sherlock, but took him with some sense of humour. Mike was able to sit and listen to him being clever and sometimes a bit cruel and never showed much more than a little smirk. He didn’t feel offended or angry, rather impressed, which was a welcomed change to what Sherlock usually experienced. Yet, Sherlock was glad he didn’t encounter Mike too often. He could be a bit boring and somewhat annoying.

He met him again, after not seeing him for more than a month, about a week after he had moved into his new flat.

“So, how’s your row with your landlord going?” Mike asked smiling, before taking a big sip from his coffee.

“Oh, it’s over already,” Sherlock said, deciding that he did not have to rub it in Mike’s face how and why exactly it ended. “I found a better place. Not too expensive, but more than enough space. Almost too much.”

“Well, you could get a flat-share,” the teacher suggested.

Sherlock gave him a questioning look. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

“Don’t know,” he huffed. “A friend, a relative…”

“Brilliant idea,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “I never would have thought of that.”

“Well, I don’t know,” the shorter shrugged. “There has to be someone.”

“Believe me,” Sherlock said with a tired sigh, “if there was someone in this world, I would think of them. I doubt there is anyone insane enough to move in with me.”

Mike nodded slowly. For a moment he had forgotten that Sherlock could seemingly remember everything anyone has ever said or done. He took a glance at the clock on the wall and realised that he had to start working. He quickly got up. “Well, I need to go. I’ll let you know if I can think of someone who needs place to live in,” he said laughing, while he backed out. Sherlock merely nodded almost unnoticeably, staring out of the window. He had drifted off into his own world again, thinking about cases and experiments that Mike could not and didn’t quite want to imagine.


	12. What Was It That You Tried To Say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, last chapter. This was originally an epilogue (which is why it is so short), so it does not really contribute to the story and you can happily leave the story without reading this chapter.

What’s wrong?” Mary asked, a bit worried when she found John smiling sadly at the calendar.

“Nothing,” he quickly said. “It’s just,” he took a deep breath, “I just realised it’s Sherlock’s birthday.”

She did not know what to say to that. She knew, of course, of all their adventures and how much Sherlock had meant to John, so she couldn’t think of anything appropriate for what he must feel, thinking back of his lost friend.

“I remember, a few days before his birthday, a few months after we had moved in together, his brother told me that his birthday was coming up, but I should not pay attention to it. And that Sherlock might behave a bit unusual.” He stared at the date the calendar was showing and let the memories overwhelm him. Somehow it felt good, though it made him incredibly sad. “He just lay in bed all day, staring at the wall melancholically. Didn’t even get dressed. We were offered a case the previous day, but he declined. I really thought he would be interested, but he said he couldn’t take a case that day. He even got a bit angry when the client started begging him. And the day after, he just pulled me all over town, like nothing had happened. Never knew why. Didn’t ask.” John huffed, regretting not having asked, when he still had the chance. Now he never would find out. “I thought it would be a bad idea to remind him of something that makes him so sad, thought he wouldn’t want to talk about it. He probably would have talked about it, if he had felt like it. He usually never shut up, even when I tried to make him.”

Mary smiled at him. John had told her all about Sherlock’s never ending monologues, which he even continued, when he was all alone.

All the time, since he had seen Sherlock like that, John had wondered what could be so upsetting about his birthday, that he didn’t even want to go to bed. Now he felt like going straight back to bed and not getting out for the rest of the day too, but that was something completely different, he thought. Sherlock was obviously not mourning his own death, like he was. Sherlock hadn’t lost someone, had he?

No, couldn’t be. John knew it couldn’t be about his parents and not Mycroft either and as far as he knew there were no more siblings. Grandparents, maybe? Are people so close with their grandparents that they mourn them for so long? Sometimes, maybe, but not when those people are Holmeses, surely.

Sherlock would have known, if it had been someone else John thought, forcing himself to a sad smile, so he’d not break out into tears.

“Never mind,” he said, more to remind himself that he had to concentrate on other things than to Mary. “I’ll better be off.”

He gave her a quick kiss, and left to work, like any other morning, trying to pretend the world was all right, trying not to think about the loss of his best friend.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like it and stuff and criticism is always welcome of course.  
> Betas are Yuri and Emma aka thebritishteapot and bitchinblackframedglasses. Huge thanks to them for reading this despite all difficulties and business and being generally awesome and supportive.


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